


Alternate

by watanuki_sama



Category: Common Law
Genre: Drabble Collection, More warnings inside, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:03:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watanuki_sama/pseuds/watanuki_sama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sighs. “In a thousand worlds, I feel like I’ve met you a thousand times.” 50 AU drabbles of 100 words or less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alternate

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** In no particular order, drabbles include: AU, addiction, attempted suicide, blood, character death, disabilities, illness, implied non-con, implied torture, injury, mental disorders, mental instability, murder, prostitution, suicide of a minor character, threesome, violence, and Wesvis.
> 
> Also posted on FF.net under the penname 'EFAW' on 01.15.14.
> 
> I saw a Supernatural fic with this format and liked it so much I decided to try it on my own.

_“Go then, there are other worlds than these.”_   
_—Stephen King, The Dark Tower_

\---

(1)  
The letters on the door say _TRAVIS MARKS, P.I._ but the building is seedy and untrustworthy at best. Inside there’s no receptionist, just a waiting room and an open doorway that Wes walks to. The man inside is sitting with his feet on the desk, multitudes of food wrappers spread around him, and Wes can feel his face curling in disgust.

“You’re the PI?” he asks, and the other man grins. 

“That’s what it says on the door.”

Reluctantly, Wes sits, afraid to touch anything, and just sighs. “Lovely.”

(2)  
There are all sorts of rumors about Wes Mitchell, the brilliant lawyer who had a breakdown after his client died and opened a coffee shop.

Travis doesn’t pay much attention to the rumors most days. So what if the guy is a little twitchy whenever a uniform comes in or yells at people when they leave crumbs? The cafe has better coffee than anything the station could dredge up and Wes makes baked goods to die for, and really, that’s good enough for Travis.

(3)  
Travis makes sure to count the money before shoving it in his pocket and undressing. He’s been cheated often enough that he’s not giving anything up without being paid first. _What do you want tonight?_ he asks, stretching so the john can see all his lines. Mr. Grey Suit swallows and says, _I want to lose control,_ and Travis just grins and crawls onto the bed. _I can definitely help with that,_ he purrs, and goes to prove it with his tongue and fingers until Mr. Grey Suit has abandoned all his prissy self-control and laid it at Travis’s feet.

(4)  
“FBI looks good on you, babe.”

Wes rises, smiling before he realizes. “Travis. You wear DEA pretty well too.”

“Thanks.” Travis smiles, and Wes is struck by the feeling in his chest. Affection, fondness, nostalgia.

The sting of abandonment has faded, and mostly Wes just misses his old partner.

“So.” He rubs Purell onto his hands. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

Travis leans against the doorway, easy as can be, like there _aren’t_ years of baggage between them.

“Need your help, man.”

And Wes knows he’ll say yes before he ever hears the particulars.

(5)  
“You’re hot.”

The sexy ER doc stops talking mid-sentence and looks at him. “What?”

Travis coughs and tastes blood. “You’re hot. What’s your name?”

Something between a grin and concern crosses the blonde’s face. “I’m Doctor Mitchell. How about we save the flirtation for after I save your life?”

“Yeah?” Travis grins, coughs, tastes more blood. “Gunshot wounds are sexy. I’m a cop, you know.” He levels his best charming smile, bloodstained as it is, at the other man.

The surgeon’s eyes crinkle. “ _After._ ”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Travis mumbles as the blood loss drags him under.

(6)  
“If they’d told me at Langley there’d be all this sneaking I never would have signed on.” Travis sighs. “James Bond lied to me.”

“James Bond was a horrible spy,” Wes says, absently browsing while watching their target. “ _Covert_ is the name of the game. He was not.”

“You’re jealous ‘cuz he got all the girls and you got _nothin’._ ”

“You got me.” Wes rolls his eyes. “Idiot. Let’s go, our guy’s moving.”

Wes takes off. Travis pays for a pair of cheap sunglasses before following. As he slides them on, he grins and whispers to himself.

“Marks. Travis Marks.”

(7)  
The moment Travis turns fifteen, he starts saving his money and counting down the days. He stays on his best behavior and works two part-time jobs after school, and he refuses to spend a single dime except on the things he needs.

When they hand him his papers on his eighteenth birthday, Travis lets out a yell. He grabs his bags, which have been packed for three weeks, climbs on the used motorcycle he bought yesterday, and turns the bike east. He drives until he hits the Atlantic Ocean, and he doesn’t look back once.

(8)  
After the accident, Wes can’t be a cop, so he goes back to the law firm. That prompts a ton of Daredevil jokes from Travis that Wes doesn’t really get even after they’re explained to him. It’s different, but he doesn’t mind, usually. He doesn’t need to see to be a good lawyer, and he’s still winning his cases.

The thing he misses most is Travis’s face; Wes can relearn the shape through his fingers and lips, but he’s starting to forget the color of Travis’s eyes and the brilliance of his smile, and it’s just not the same.

(9)  
By the third drink, Travis has his leg pressed up against Wes’s, and Wes doesn’t protest. By the fifth drink, he knows all about the divorce and the loneliness and his hand is on Wes’s thigh. By the sixth drink, he’s pretty sure this will be the easiest conquest ever, especially when Wes doesn’t even protest when he suggests they go somewhere more private.

He does feel a little bad in the morning, when he remembers the desperate hunger and need in those grasping lips and clutching hands. But Travis doesn’t do relationships, and he slips out before Wes wakes.

(10)  
They don’t talk about That Day.

They don’t talk about the fall down the stairs, or the pool of blood, or how Wes came home to find Alex crying, her eyes distant and far away. They don’t talk about the hospital or the doctors or the way Alex flinched when a baby cried nearby.

He shuts the door on the room he was going to make into a nursery and he turns his back on the idea of a child because Alex just isn’t ready to try again so soon.

They don’t talk about it.

(11)  
After eighteen years in the system and nearly ten years of schooling, Travis knows how to read people, and he can tell this guy is going to be a stubborn asshole.

“I don’t need therapy,” Wes Mitchell declares, glaring at Travis.

“Your wife thinks you’re depressed.”

“She’s wrong, Doctor. I’m _fine_ ,” Wes protests, crossing his arms.

“Let me be the judge of that.” Travis leans back, studies his patient. “So let’s talk about why you left law. Tell me about Anthony.”

Wes’s jaw goes tight; he doesn’t say a word. That’s alright—Travis always enjoys a challenge.

(12)  
Wes sits with his hands folded in front of him, watching the door at the end of the room. His client swaggers in, strutting like prison orange is the new black. Wes keeps his face carefully blank and doesn’t say anything until the man is sitting down.

Travis smirks and eyes him up and down. “So you’re my lawyer, huh?” he leers, leaning back. “You’re hot.”

“Thank you,” Wes says dryly, reminding himself that this man is a criminal and (allegedly) shot a store clerk in the robbery. He pulls out his files. “Let’s talk about your case.”

(13)  
It’s four years before Travis says, “I want you to meet my family,” to which Wes replies, “I’ve met plenty of your family.” Travis says, “No, my real family,” and that’s enough to peak Wes’s interest, because he knows Travis doesn’t know his birth parents. He lets Travis drive and gets more curious with every passing second.

They stop in front of a cute house with a white fence and a bicycle in the yard. As soon as Travis gets out of the car, the front door bursts open and a little girl with Travis’s eyes flies out calling, “Daddy!”

(14)  
“The FBI is coming in on this,” Captain Sutton says, and Travis closes his eyes and groans. “Does that mean—”

“Yup,” a voice says behind him, and Travis doesn’t hide his dismay when he turns and sees Wes Mitchell standing there. The agent glowers and crosses his arms when he sees Travis’s face. “Believe me, I’m just as happy as you are. But that’s what you get when your robbery coincides with my kidnapping case.”

Travis turns to Captain Sutton. “It couldn’t be _anyone_ else?”

Sutton just scowls and says, “Suck it up, Travis.”

(15)  
It’s always easy to tell the new fosters from the old; the new ones have a sheen of terror and emptiness in their eyes that anyone in the system has learned to hide. Wes just looks like he’s shut down, like what’s happened is too much for his brain to comprehend. This is probably his first home.

Travis takes pity on the kid and wraps an arm around scrawny shoulders. “Come on, kid, let’s get you settled in.” He knows how much a kind helping hand can ease the transition the first few times.

(16)  
There’s nothing shameful about stripping. It’s a time honored tradition, it helps pay for law school, and three of his classmates are working at the same club. Besides, the money is good, and no one would ever associate the spicy ‘Pepper’ with the anal, OCD Wes.

And if he has to recite civil code to himself to get through lap dances and take three showers every night to get the glitter and the feel of grubby, grimy hands off his skin, well, no one has to know.

(17)   
Travis has never much believed in God, but when the church looms up out of the night, he takes it as a sign. He stumbles in and collapses on a pew, clutching the bloody hole in his side. So much for honor among thieves and all that.

He jerks awake at a touch on his forehead, flailing against his attacker. “Shh, it’s alright,” a gentle voice murmurs. Travis blinks his eyes open and the priest smiles softly. “My name is Father Wesley. You’re safe here. I’m going to help you.”

Travis drifts away again and dreams of blond angels.

(18)  
“I’m glad you’re happy,” Alex says, and he can hear the sincerity in her voice. Wes smiles fondly, spinning his wedding ring with his thumb, and looks across the produce aisle where Travis is studying a watermelon and trying not to look like he’s spying on Wes and Alex.

“Thank you,” Wes says, and gives her a hug. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go kiss my jealous husband.”

Travis will always say he’s not jealous, but he doesn’t relax until Wes holds him and assures him, “I chose you, dummy. You have nothing to worry about.”

(19)  
When Travis learns his cellmate is in for embezzlement, he thinks _weak_ and _gonna get eaten alive._ It’s not helped by his first glimpse of the guy, because Wes is skinny and looks lost in his orange jumpsuit.

Then a fight breaks out, and Wes takes the opportunity and shanks Morgan for getting too handsy a few days earlier. Travis is impressed. When Wes gets out of solitary, Travis asks, genuinely curious, “Embezzlement’s all they could get you on, right? What’d you really do?”

Wes just smiles a rattlesnake grin and doesn’t answer. His eyes are cold as ice.

(20)  
He sighs. “In a thousand worlds, I feel like I’ve met you a thousand times.”

Wes looks up, grimacing. “That’s the cheesiest line you’ve used yet.”

Travis just grins. “Is it working?”

“Not even slightly.” Travis’s face falls and Wes bites back a smile. “But you’ve been at it for a solid month, and I admire persistence. You have…” He checks his watch. “…twenty minutes to wow me with all the reasons I should go out with you.”

Travis’s face splits into a radiant grin. That’s reason number one right there. Not that Wes will ever tell Travis that.

(21)  
When his marriage with Alex starts to fall apart, Travis comes into their lives, and it works. Wes didn’t think it would, but it does. It’s not just the sex, which confused him at first but he’s getting used to it, figuring out where an extra set of limbs goes and how to maneuver in bed with three people instead of two.

The sex is good, but what works is _them_. Sitting around the table laughing while Wes cooks. Squishing three bodies into their little couch. It _works_ , and Wes holds his breath and prays it’ll keep working forever.

(22)  
After the body has cooled and the coffin is buried, Wes buys a dog. He doesn’t call it Travis, though that’s his first thought. Instead, he calls it Hero, and he walks the dog to the cemetery and points at the gravestone. He solemnly tells the dog about the idiot fool who jumped in front of a bullet to save his partner’s life; he tells Hero to never do such a dumb thing, and he holds the dog tight when his tears are licked off his face.

(23)  
Alex tries to keep Wes at the firm, but she realizes quickly it won’t work. Wes’s hands shake whenever he holds a file and stepping into a courtroom makes him panick. His OCD is spinning out of control, and when she catches him counting the rocks in the decorative fountain, she tells him he needs to quit before he breaks down.

She’d never expected having a stay-at-home husband, but she loves him. She’ll adapt. He spends most of the day in the yard, and his hands don’t shake when she brings work home anymore. She counts it as a win.

(24)  
 _One of these days, you’re going to run into a burning building without backup and I’m not going to save you,_ Wes said six months ago, after Travis got his third citation for doing just that. But he’s not going to wait when he’s first on the scene and there might be people inside. He became a fireman to save lives, and he knows how much waiting can cost.

Besides, he knows that Wes will be right behind him, no matter what he says, so it’s not like Travis ever _actually_ goes in without backup. Wes is always right there.

(25)  
Travis can still see it when he closes his eyes, the way Wes jerked like a broken puppet when the bullets ran through him— _one two three four_ —and the surprise in his eyes when he fell. Travis expected him to get up, still expects him to, but neither reality nor his memories are that kind, and Wes stays down, bleeding and bleeding and bleeding.

And if he’s honest, he’s a little glad Wes in his memories doesn’t get up, because he’s afraid that Wes will look at him with blood on his face and say it’s all Travis’s fault.

(26)  
Travis spends most nights in the spare bedroom, because Wes has Issues and on bad days doesn’t like to be touched even by his boyfriend, and also Travis hogs the covers. But Travis understands, he really does, which is exactly the reason why Wes loves him. Plus, Travis can always tell the good days, when it’s okay to sneak into Wes’s bed and spoon him, and on those days Wes doesn’t even mind when Travis takes all the covers, because Travis is warm against his back and holds him tight like he’ll never let go.

(27)  
As much as Travis loves people, there’s something special about this time of night, when the diner is quiet and the only ones who wander in are lost souls. Sure, there’s a lot of sitting and waiting because it’s an obscure little hole-in-the-wall, but when people _do_ come in, they’re a treasure.

Which is why he lights up when the blonde in the rumpled suit enters, looking like he’s been kicked in the gut a few times. This one looks like a puzzle, and Travis likes puzzles.

He bounces up and smiles. “Hey there. What can I get you tonight?”

(28)  
Most people who see the wheelchair get awkwardly polite, like just because Travis is in this chair, he’s a delicate flower made of spun glass. That’s why he likes Wes so much.

When Travis accidentally rolls over Wes’s foot in the grocery store, Wes hops around clutching his foot for five minutes, spewing an impressive stream of expletives. He finishes by glaring at Travis and saying, “Watch where you’re driving that thing, you idiot.”

The rudeness is so refreshing that Travis laughs until his sides hurt. As soon as he can breathe properly again, he asks for Wes’s phone number. 

(29)   
One minute they’re yelling at each other and grabbing each other’s shirtfronts, and Captain Sutton is snatching up the phone and dialing for Dr. Ryan. The next they’re kissing the hell out of each other, fiery and demanding and passionate. It’s better than them beating each other up or throwing themselves through conference room windows, but everyone still stops for a moment to process what they’re seeing.

Captain Sutton puts down the phone and coughs, and they break apart, flushed and triumphant. The other cops don’t even pretend to be discreet as money exchanges hands.

(30)  
“Wes,” Travis says when they bump in the grocery store, “haven’t seen you since college. How are you?” and Wes goes, “Travis,” in that way he used to, and Travis is taken back. To bumping knees under desks and holding hands in the halls. To pizza study dates in the library and fevered kisses in the parking lot. To sweat and skin and heat, and promises in the dark that never came true.

Then a woman walks up, and Wes says, “This is my wife, Alex,” and the memories shatter like glass.

(31)  
After seven states and a slew of bodies, the feds finally corner the pair outside Houston.

They _look_ normal, but everyone knows they’re guilty as sin. Marks, who kidnapped and used the girls and then slit their throats, and Mitchell, who cleaned the girls so fastidiously it took ten months to catch him making a mistake for enough evidence to make charges stick.

“Fourteen girls,” one agent murmurs. “How can anything turn two people into such monsters?”

“I don’t know,” another agent says, looking at the handcuffed men. “I just don’t know.”

(32)  
The case is a teenage girl who strung herself up in her garage. Wes goes white when he sees her and he doesn’t say a word when Travis talks to her parents.

Travis drives to the house after work to find Wes on his knees in the yard, his nice suit covered in grass stains and mud. He gets out, pulls Wes into the house, and doesn’t say anything. Wes shakes on the stool and watches his past with haunted eyes. Travis has enough tact not to ask about the one that tore Wes apart. He’s just there for support.

(33)  
Travis races motorcycles. It started as a way to earn money, but now he does it for the rush. For the wind in his face as he speeds down empty streets, the power of the bike between his legs, the knowledge that his control is the only thing keeping him from spinning out and becoming a smear on the pavement.

There’s every chance he could die doing this, taking a turn too sharp or losing control as he goes too fast. But really, that just heightens the thrill. It’s worth every risk.

(34)  
“What are you in here for?” his roommate asks after a week.

Travis stabs his Jell-O. “ _Technically_ I burned down my foster home. Apparently I’m bipolar or something. And you? Lemme guess, OCD?”

Wes hums, shifting his corn kernels into a grid, 5x5 and never more or less. Travis doesn’t need to ask what landed Wes in the nuthouse. The bandages on his wrists tell that story.

Instead, he asks, “Checkers after lunch?”

“I’ll just beat you again,” Wes drawls, scooping his extra corn onto Travis’s plate.

Travis laughs and thinks this is the most normal he’s ever felt.

(35)  
When Travis pulls Wes to the bed, Wes pales, but he lets Travis settle him on the comforter and slowly ease his clothes off. Travis takes that trust and cradles it close, running gentle hands across bruised flesh and trying to touch the scars no one can see. He gives pleasure and kindness and affection until Wes is quivering and moaning beneath him; he’s determined to do it until every memory of those kidnappers has been wiped away by his touch and Wes can hold him without flinching again.

(36)  
His counselor says he should take care of something to help move past his grief. Wes gets a dog, an ugly rescue mutt with bright eyes. He calls it Xander and pretends it has nothing to do with his dead wife.

The first day at the park, Xander slips his leash and goes after a man and the hot dog in his hand. Wes expects annoyance. Instead he gets, “Your dog is adorable,” from the cute guy with the incredibly blue eyes. For the first time in a year, something like attraction flutters in his belly.

(37)  
They fight because they’re both very damaged people and they know it. They fuck because when they’re together, they’re a little less broken then they were and make something almost whole.

They come together because they’re better together than they ever were apart. They stay together because some days the only way they can stay standing is by leaning on each other for support.

Somehow, in ways no one can explain, it works.

(38)  
After more than four months in the cartel’s hands, tortured for what they know and strung out on product for the bastards’ sick pleasure, Travis is little more than teeth and nails and a vicious, wild, unbridled fury. He doesn’t let anyone touch him, unwilling or unable to recognize helping hands, and he attacks the paramedic who tries to get to Wes. Wes just sits there, a docile, empty shell with a thousand-yard stare, gone so far inside his own head no one can bring him out.

(39)  
When Alex announces her engagement, Wes just blinks and says, “Oh. Good for her.” Travis is understandably worried, so after work he ambushes Wes at his hotel room and encourages him to open up. “Because Dr. Ryan says it’s not good to bottle things up, Wes. I know you, you’re an epic emotional bottler, and it’s okay to cry, you know, I won’t make fun of you—”

Wes cuts him off mid-rant with a kiss and gives Travis his _You are so stupid why do I put up with you_ look. “I’m not in love with Alex anymore, dumbass.”

(40)  
“You wanted to see me, Boss?”

Travis looks up, smiles at the man in the doorway. “Wes. Come on in. Or should I say, Special Agent Wesley Mitchell?”

Wes turns to run, but Travis’s men grab him.

“It’s impressive, really.” Travis leans back. “No other fed has gotten so high in my organization. You’re good, and I like you. So you get a choice. Join me, or…disappear.”

Wes makes his choice.

After the smoke clears, Travis stares at the body on the floor and sighs. “Shame. But I suppose his loyalty _was_ one of the things I liked about him.”

(41)  
Travis takes in the stray kitten because it breaks his heart to see it sitting out in the rain. It turns out to be a great pet. It happily entertains itself during his long work hours, learns to use the litter box in just a week, and is always waiting at the door when he comes home.

Naming it is not a problem. It’s finicky, cleans itself with obsessive regularity, and has the biggest blue eyes Travis has ever seen. What else would he call it but Wes?

Watching his partner’s face go red in annoyance is just a bonus.

(42)  
At first, it’s kind of funny. They play charades to get their point across, they (Travis, at least) make up dialogue for people on TV, and Travis can ignore Wes’s rants just by turning away. The hearing loss is only temporary, which makes it more of a game than anything. And then Wes starts to get his hearing back, and Travis doesn’t, because Travis is reckless and impatient and was standing too close to the blast, and all of a sudden it’s not nearly as funny, and Travis just closes his eyes to avoid the pity on his partner’s face.

(43)  
It’s been one of those days, so Travis finds the nearest meeting he can. It’s AA, not NA, but it has the same shitty coffee and the same collection of hopeless souls gathered in a church basement. Travis lingers in the back and smiles politely and drinks coffee until he can convince himself the shaking in his hands is from caffeine.

When the meeting starts, he sits in the back and listens, commiserating with strangers who have the same problem he does. Who _understand_ what it’s like. It’s not perfect, not nearly, but on days like today, it’s enough.

(44)  
His name wasn’t always Wesley Mitchell.

He used to be a lawyer, that’s true, and he used to be married to Alex, though her name wasn’t always Alex, like his name wasn’t always Wes. There are things he can’t say, secrets he can’t reveal.

Like the little boy with his eyes that he loved more than life itself. Like the high-profile case against a mob boss with connections. Like the blood on his hands as his little boy died in his arms.

WitSec has rules, and he has to keep everything a secret, for the safety of everyone around him.

(45)  
They find him in his underwear on the kitchen floor, scrubbing with obsessive single-mindedness while his wife’s body cools three feet away. He called it in himself and there’s blood on the clothes in the washer so Travis doesn’t get it.

“Mr. Mitchell, did you kill your wife?”

Mitchel blinks wild eyes. “Yes.”

“Then why were you trying to get rid of evidence?”

Another blink. “I wasn’t. I was cleaning.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“I made a mess. There was blood everywhere. I had to clean it up.” Mitchell wrings his hands. “Do you have any Purell?”

(46)  
There’s a bomber in LA, a madman who kidnaps people, straps them into rigged vests, and sets them on the unsuspecting populace to blow. LAPD and FBI have saved four victims; they’ve lost two.

Wes sits silent, ignoring the officers evacuating the subway car, gaze locked on fear-filled blue. The bomb squad is taking forever, and if they don’t get here in time he’s not letting his partner die alone.

The red LED under Travis’s jacket continues counting down.

(47)  
At lunch, Wes drops his forehead on the table with a groan. “Whoever said kids hate the first day of school the most was _wrong_.”

Travis clucks his tongue and sets his tray down. “Tough crowd?”

The English teacher looks up deploringly. “I don’t think some of them know how to read. What have they been learning the past ten years?”

The math teacher just laughs and claps him on the shoulder. “But that’s what the joy of teaching is all about. Filling young minds with knowledge!”

Wes groans again. “Shut up.”

(48)  
It’s still new, waking up with another body in his bed. He’s slept alone for so long, but he’s getting used to it, and it’s not the worst feeling in the world.

He smiles and rolls over, snuggling into the arms around his waist. Sleepy blue eyes blink at him, and a smile crosses both their faces.

“Morning,” he says, pressing a kiss against his partner’s nose, and the mumbled, sleepy greeting back makes his heart flutter. Yeah, he could definitely get used to this.

(49)  
Travis is fine while Wes is missing, for the most part. Then they find the warehouse, and they find Wes’s body, tied to a chair with a bullet in his head, and everyone waits for the other shoe to drop.

Three days after the funeral, Travis disappears. Rumors abound: He’s run off to Mexico. He’s killed himself. He’s killing the cartel that murdered his partner. Sutton knows the last is most likely, but he hopes he’s wrong.

And then bodies start showing up.

(50)  
“Fifty years,” Wes grumbles, pushing his walker down the hall. “Fifty years and I’m still not rid of you. How did that happen?”

“You know what they say, babe,” Travis quips, motorized scooter humming at Wes’s side. “For better or worse, till death do us part and all that.”

Wes glares at the scooter, stubbornly pretending it wouldn’t make his life easier. He’s over eighty but he’s still mobile, he’ll keep it that way.

“We’re still not married,” Wes denies sourly.

Travis laughs and scoots ahead. “You sure are a grumpy old man, Wes. At least some things never change!”

**Author's Note:**

> Any resemblance to any other author’s AU world is complete coincidence.


End file.
